The Wing Alak Stories

by Poul Anderson

  “Well, there’s a lot of military and government traffic tonight. Wait till the next official car comes along, then you can go out with it.”

  “Thanks,” Alak snapped off the screen and let his body relax, muscle by muscle. It was as much as he’d dared hope for. But if his theft was discovered while he waited—

  It wasn’t. The stolen car slipped past the lowered force-dome together with a long sleek black flier bearing several stars. Alak took a direct north course until the city was behind the horizon, then opened the car up and swung in a screaming arc for the Premier’s estate.

  Nighted countryside slipped beneath him. The numbers representing position co-ordinates changed on the car’s dashboard. He let the autopilot take over, and studied the landscape below.

  “Mostly agricultural,” he said. “But . . . wait, there’s a pretty big region of forested hills. We’ll hide there.”

  “If we escape to hide,” said Slinh gloomily.

  When they were within a kilometer of Voal’s home, Alak halted the car and hung motionless on its gravity beams. “They’d detect a metal object coming any closer,” he said. “I’ll wait here for you, Slinh.”

  Wordlessly, the reptile opened the door. His leathery wings flapped and the night swallowed him.

  The servants were wakened by a shout and the sound of falling bodies. A blaster roared in the dark. Someone screamed, and there was heard a beating of wings out the nursery window.

  When order of a sort was restored, it was found that—something—had come into the room, rendering several guards unconscious on the way; one, who had had a brief glimpse at which he had fired, swore it was a devil complete with tail and bat wings. Be that as it may, Alia, youngest daughter of the Premier of Luan, was missing, and a note addressed to her father lay on the floor.

  He read it with his cheeks whitening:

  Bring ten thousand League credits in unmarked bills tomorrow night at 0100 hours to that island in the Mortha River lying one hundred and three kilometers due south-southwest of your country house. Do not tell police or make any attempt to use tracer beams or otherwise trail us, or you will not see your child again.

  * * *

  The Zordoch of the Branna Kai was dead, and over the whole planet Cromman and such other planets of the system as had been colonized, there was mourning; for the hereditary chief of the most powerful of the clans had been well loved.

  Duwan stood at the window and looked out over the great estate of his fathers. Torches bobbed through the dusk, a long ceremonial procession approached the castle with the slowness of ancient ritual. The weird skirl of pipes and the rolling thunder of drums rose in the evening, breaking in a surf of sound against the high stone walls, surf that sent its broken spindrift up to the ears of Duwan. He savored the sound, hungrily.

  The Zordoch of the Branna Kai was dead; and the chiefs of the clans were coming with their immemorial ceremonies to give the crown to his eldest son.

  A slave entered, genuflecting before the tall arrogant figure, purple-robed and turbaned, that stood before the window. “Your pardon, lord,” he said fearfully, “but a stranger desires admittance.”

  “Eh?” Duwan scowled. The castle was closed to all but the slowly approaching chiefs. The old rituals were not to be disturbed, nor did Duwan wish distraction in this greatest of hours. He snarled his gathering anger: “I’ll have the warders’ heads for this.”

  “Sire,” mumbled the slave, “he did not come in by the gates. He landed on the roof in an airship. He is not of Cromman, but from some strange world—”

  “Hm-m-m?” Duwan pricked up his ears, and an ominous tingle ran along his spine. He could not imagine a Galactic having much interest in as newly discovered and backward a system as this. Later, of course, after a progressive had held the Zordochy for a few years—but now— “Send him in.”

  The stranger came so quickly that Duwan suspected he had been on the way while the slave went ahead to get permission. The Crommanite recognized him as terrestrial, though he did not have the look of a Solarian—probably some colonist. What was more to the point, he wore the blue uniform of the League Patrol.

  The human bowed formally. “Your pardon,” he said, “but I am on an urgent mission.” He glanced out the window at the approaching torches. “In fact, I am almost too late.”

  "That is true,” replied Duwan coldly. “I must ask you to leave before the chiefs reach the castle’s gates.”

  “My business can be accomplished in less time. I am, as you see, a representative of the Patrol—here are my credentials, if you wish to see them.”

  Duwan barely glanced at the papers. “I am familiar with the like,” he said. “After all, Cromman has been in the League for almost a century now, though we have had little outside contact.” He felt, somehow, irritated at the compulsion, that he must explain the fact: “When we were introduced to spaceships and the like, we naturally wished to develop our own planet and its sisters first before venturing into other worlds. Also, most of the Zordochs were conservatives. But a newer generation of leaders is arising—I myself, as you see, am about to become head of the most influential clan—and we will see some changes now.”

  “That is what I came about,” said the Patrolman. “It may seem strange, but I will make it short: I bear a most urgent request from Galactic headquarters that you refuse the crown when it is offered you tonight and direct that it be given to your younger brother Kian.”

  For a moment the sheer barefaced effrontery of it held Duwan paralyzed. Then the black rage that made him grab for his sword was throttled by a grim control, and when he spoke his voice was unnaturally level: “You must be mad.”

  “Perfectly sane, I assure you. But hurry, please, the procession will be here soon.”

  “But what imaginable reason—Why, Kian is more hopelessly conservative than even my father—And the League constitution specifically forbids interference in the internal affairs of member planets—” Duwan shook his head, slowly, slowly. “I can’t comprehend it.”

  “The Patrol recognizes no laws save those of its own making—otherwise there is only immediate necessity,” said the human cynically. “I will tell you why we wish this later, if you desire, but there is no time now. You must agree at once.”

  “Why . . . you are just crazy—” The rage came again, bitter in Duwan’s throat: “If you try to impose your will forcibly on Cromman, you’ll find that our boast of being a warrior race is not idle.”

  “There is no question of force. It is not necessary.” The Patrolman reached into his portfolio. “You traveled quite a bit through the Galaxy some years ago. And the moral code of Cromman is stern and inflexible. Those two facts are sufficient.”

  * * *

  With a horrible feeling of having stepped over the edge of the world, Duwan watched him extract a bundle of stereofilms, psychographs, and other material from his case. “When the chiefs arrive with the crown,” said the Patrolman smugly, “I will explain that, while the League does not wish to meddle, it feels it to be a duty to warn its member planets against making mistakes. And the coronation of a Zordoch who had been guilty of, shall we say, moral turpitude in the fleshpots of the Galaxy, would be a definite mistake.”

  “But—” With a feeling of physical illness, Duwan looked at the pictures. “But ... by the Spirit, I was young then—”

  “So you were. But will that matter to Cromman?”

  “I . . . I’ll deny—”

  “Stereofilms could be faked, yes, but not psychographic recordings, and there are plenty of scientists on Cromman who know that. Also we could produce a Crommanite or two who had been with you—”

  “But—Oh, no!—Why, one of those Crommanites was a Patrolman who . . . who took me to that place—”

  “Certainly. In fact, just between us—and I shall deny it on oath if you repeat it in public—the Patrol maintains that house and others like it, and makes a point of persuading as many influential and potentially influential beings as
possible to have a fling there. The records we get are often useful later on.”

  Duwan reached for his sword. The Patrolman said evenly: “If I fail to report back, this evidence will be made public. I think you will be wiser to refuse the Zordochy for reasons of . . . well, ill health. Then this information can safely gather dust in the Patrol’s secret files.”

  For a long, long moment Duwan stared at the sword. The tears blurring his eyes seemed like a film of rust across the bright steel. Then he clashed it back into its sheath.

  “I have no choice,” he said. “But when the League breaks its own laws, and employs the filthiest blackmailers to do the job, then justice is dead in the Galaxy.”

  * * *

  Three days later, Alak’s agreed code call went over the Luanian telescreens. Slinh received it and lifted the stolen car into the air. “Now be quiet,” he told the dirty, tear-faced child with him. “We’re going back to Daddy.” He added to himself, “Of course, it’s possible that Daddy had Alak drugged or tortured to give the signal. That’s what I’d have tried. But if so, it’s only what the Patrolman deserves for leaving me in charge of this brat.”

  For fear of its radiations revealing his hidden car to searchers—metal detectors were dangerous enough—Slinh had only turned the televisor on for a few seconds at the agreed hours. Now, as he listened to the newscasts, a dawning amazement held him motionless. “Marhal has offered compromise —Premier Voal in secret conference—Secession from League being reconsidered—”

  Holy Galaxy! Had Alak really pulled it off? If a crook like that Patrolman, hunted and alone, could overturn a planet—

  Slinh set his vehicle down on the lawn of the Premier’s city residence. The force dome was down and only a few military craft were in sight. Peace—

  Tranis Voal stood before the house with his arm about his wife’s shoulders. There were no other officials in sight, with the possible exception of Alak. The Patrolman stood to one side, his hair like coppery fire in the sun, the look of a fox who has just raided a chicken coop on his sharp face; but there was somehow a loneliness over him. Though he was the conqueror he was still one man against a world.

  Slinh led the child outside. Voal uttered a queer little choking cry and fell on his knees before her. When he looked up, tears gleamed in his eyes and ran down his haggard cheeks. “She’s all right,” he choked. “She’s all right—”

  “Of course she’s all right,” said Alak impatiently. “Now that your government has gone too far toward peace to back down, I don’t mind telling you that no matter what your attitude would have been, she wouldn’t have been harmed. Patrolmen may have no scruples, but we aren’t fiends.” He added slowly, somewhat bitterly, “Only a completely honest man, a fanatic or a fool, can be really fiendish.”

  Slinh tugged at Alak’s sleeve. “Now will you tell me just what happened?” he hissed.

  “What I hoped for,” said Alak. “After you left me on the island and took the kid into hiding, I just waited. That night Voal showed up with the money.”

  “Hm-m-m—so you also got a little personal profit out of it,” said the Rassalan slyly.

  “I didn’t want his money, I didn’t take it,” said Alak wearily. “The ransom demand was simply a device to make him think a gang of ordinary kidnapers had taken the girl. If he’d known it was the hated and untrustworthy Patrolman who had her, he’d probably have been out of his head with fear and loathing, have brought all the cops on the planet down on me, and . . . well, this way I got him alone and I had a club over his head. I told him the Patrol couldn’t weigh the life of one child against several million, perhaps billion, and that we’d kill the kid if he didn’t listen to reason. He did. I came here with him, secretly, and used him as my puppet. With his emergency powers, he was able to stop the scheduled assault on Marhal and swing the government toward conciliation. A truce has been declared, and a League mediator is on the way.”

  Voal came over. The wrath that had ravaged his face still smoldered sullenly in his eyes. “Now that I have her back,” he said, “how do you know I’ll continue to follow your dictates?”

  “I’ve come to know you in the last few days,” answered Alak coolly. “One thing I’ve found out is that, unlike me, you’re a perfectly honest man, and you want to do what you think is right. That makes it possible for me to take an oath of secrecy from you and reveal something which will—I hope—change your attitude on this whole matter.”

  “That will have to be something extraordinary,” said Voal icily.

  “It is. If we could find a private place—?”

  Slinh looked wistfully after the two men as they entered the house. He’d give a lot to eavesdrop on that conference. He had a shrewd suspicion that the greatest secret in the Galaxy was about to be revealed—which could have been useful to him.

  They were in Voal’s study before Alak said: “I want to get over that barrier of hostility to me you still have. I think you’re objective enough to have seen in the last few days that the Patrol has no desire to oppress Luan or discriminate against it. Our job is to keep the peace, no more and no less, but that involves a paradox which we have only been able to resolve by methods unknown to policemen of any other kind. You can’t forgive my murderousness toward your child—but I repeat that there never was any. We would not have harmed her under any circumstances. But we had to make you think otherwise till my job was done.”

  “I can stand it myself,” said Voal grimly. “But what my wife went through—”

  “That was tough, wasn’t it?” Suddenly the bitterness was alive and corrosive on Alak’s face. Contempt twisted his thin lips. “Yes, that was really rugged, all three days of it. Have you ever thought how many millions of mothers this holy war of yours would have left without any prospect of getting their children back?”

  * * *

  Voal looked away from his bleak eyes and, for lack of better occupation, began to fumble with bottles and glasses. Alak accepted his drink but went on speaking:

  “The basic secret of the League Patrol—and I want your solemn oath you will never breathe a word of it to anyone—” he waited till Voal gave agreement, “is this: The Patrol may under no circumstances take life. We may not kill.”

  He paused to let it sink in, then added: “We have a few impressive-looking battleships to show the Galaxy and overawe planets when necessary, but they have never fought and never will. The rest of the mighty fleet is—nonexistent! Faked pictures and cooked news stories! Patrolmen may have occasion to carry lethal weapons, but if they ever use them it means mnemonic erasure and discharge from the service. We encourage fiction about the blazing guns of the Patrol—we write quite a bit ourselves and call it news releases—but it has absolutely no basis in fact.”

  He smiled. “So, though we might kidnap your daughter, we would certainly never kill her,” he finished.

  Voal sat down. His knees seemed suddenly to have failed him. But he looked up, it was with an expression that Alak found immensely cheering. He spoke slowly: “I can see why a reputation as formidable fighters would be a great asset to you—but why stop there? Why can’t you stand up and fight honestly? Why have you, instead, built up a record of such incredible villainy that the worst criminals of the Galaxy could not equal it?”

  Alak relaxed into a chair and sipped his cocktail. “It’s a long story,” he said. “It goes right back to the beginning of interstellar travel.”

  He searched for words a moment, then began: “After about three centuries of intercourse between the stars, it became plain that an unco-ordinated Galactic civilization would inevitably destroy itself. Consider the problems in their most elementary form. Today there are over a million civilized stars, with a population running up over ten to the fifteenth, and exploration adds new ones almost daily. Even if that population were completely uniform, the sheer complexity of administrative detail is inconceivable—why, if all government services from legislators to postmen added up to only one percent of the total, an
d no government has ever been that efficient, that would be some ten to the thirteenth individual beings in government! Robocomputers help some, but not much. You run a system with a population of about two and a half billion, and you know yourself what a job that is.

  “And then the population is not uniform, but fantastically diverse. We are mammals, warm-blooded, oxygen breathing—but there are intelligent reptiles, birds, fish, cephalopods, and creatures Earth never heard of, among the oxygen breathers alone—there are halogen breathers covering as wide a range, there are eaters of raw energy, there are creatures from worlds almost next to a sun and creatures from worlds where oxygen falls as snow. Reconciling all their needs and wants—

  “The minds and the histories of the races differ so much that no intelligence could ever imagine them all. Could you think the way the communal race-mind of Sturvel’s Planet does? Do you have the cold emotions of a Vergan arthropod or the passionate temper of a Goldran? And individuals within the races usually differ as much as, say, humans do, if not more. And histories are utterly unlike. We try to bring the benefits of civilization to all races not obviously unfit—but often we can’t tell till too late. Or even . . . well, take the case of us humans. Sol has been at peace for centuries. But humans colonizing out among the stars forget their traditions until barbarians like Luanians and Marhalians go to war!”

  “That hurt,” said Voal very quietly. “But maybe I deserved it”

  * * *

  Alak looked expectantly at his empty glass. Voal refilled it and the Patrolman drank deep. Then he said:

  “And technology has advanced to a point where armed conflict, such as was at first inevitable and raged between the stars, is death for one side and ruin for another unless the victor manages completely to wipe out his foe in the first attack. In those three unorganized centuries, some hundreds of planets were simply sterilized, or even destroyed. Whole intelligent races were wiped out almost overnight. Sol and a few allies managed to suppress piracy, but no conceivable group short of an overwhelming majority of all planets—and with the diversity I just mentioned such unanimity is impossible —could ever have imposed order on the Galaxy.